


Janus

by Sexyspectrum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anti-Hero, Attempt at Humor, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Humor, M/M, Romance, crack but not quite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29358615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexyspectrum/pseuds/Sexyspectrum
Summary: Harry is very happy with his life, thank you very much. He has a job he loves (mostly), amazing friends (mostly) and his nemesis lies six feet under (he believes).All is well.Until strange vials start appearing on his desk.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

* * *

The vial was to be the third thing Harry would notice upon sitting at his desk. One should not feel too surprised by that fact - even if the vial _was_ completely out of place there; it was, after all, hidden by a gigantic pile of paperwork which, incidentally, was the first thing Harry would notice.

Which he did as soon as he sat.

Someone had placed it neatly right in front of his chair. Some said that, sometimes, Harry could be very oblivious. But failing to notice such a behemoth would have required a level of obliviousness even Harry did not possess.

He half-heartedly cursed the person that had dared put such a thing in his office.

But he knew Miss Rosendawn could not be blamed for doing her job. And – well – he really should not be surprised. After all, his superior had warned him the day before that he would have a lot of work for him to do the next day.

Harry had obviously not expected _that much work._ And he had also been completely wrong on the nature of said work. He had stupidly assumed he would be running after one criminal or another, not filling forms and reports for the whole day. And judging by the pile… Well, he would have to do just that.

One was not sufficiently warned on the amount of paperwork an Auror was expected to do on a weekly basis. Why had he assumed he would spend the day chasing criminals and the night… also chasing criminals? Because he had been a teenager that had had _no idea_ how the real world worked, he bitterly thought. 

Sighing, he decided to spend the first hour of his day doing something interesting (which involved quite a lot of things, actually, but especially those who lacked paper). He needed to give that to himself if he wanted to be efficient for the rest of the day. (Of course, he was secretly planning on transforming that hour in _two_ hours…and then…well the bets were off) With a flick of his wand, he moved the offending stack.

Which led him to the second thing he would notice that fateful morning (but which was still not the mysterious vial). It was a card. A bizarre amount of dancing yellow and red flowers were drawn on it. Harry sighed again. It was too far from July for this to be a birthday card. And Valentine’s day had been a month ago.

No, he knew exactly what would be written on it. With as much enthusiasm as if he was on his way to perform the first wizard/dementor ballet, which was to say: none, he took it with two fingers and brought it back to him. He opened it.

"Get well Soon!! D."

He crumpled the card without even noticing the fingers of both his hands had clenched. The card was from Draco and it was - as he had expected - a taunt. Harry had ridiculed himself the day before. He would rather not remember the incident. Anyway, Draco was obviously trying to rile him up. What an asshole! thought Harry tearing his eyes from the card and -

He saw the vial. His eyebrow rose as he took it. A piece of paper was attached to its neck. Harry Potter, it read. There was no signature. The writing belonged to no one he could think of. It was neither Hermione's messy scribbles, nor was it Ron's tight ones. It was a regular handwriting - perhaps a bit old fashioned.

The vial itself was quite unremarkable. Harry knew he could buy a dozen of the same shape and size in most shops on Diagon Alley.

But inside, unmistakably, was swimming - burning bright blue - a memory.

To be fair, Harry probably would have been a bit more careful with it had he not found first the gigantic stack of forms. He would perhaps have wondered _who_ could have sent him a memory - and for what purpose. But knowing his day would be a flavour of boring he'd rather not taste, and that the mysterious vial might be a _case_ he got up immediately, turned around and strode to the Pensieve he kept in a corner of his office.

(He had stolen it from Dumbledore's (or rather, well, Snape's) office after the Battle of Hogwarts. Minerva had not dared prevent him from taking it) He opened the vial and slowly, with care, he let the memory find its way to the Pensieve. Never once wondering whether it was a good idea, he leant and allowed his mind to follow the mysterious gift he had received.

And that's how the trouble began.

* * *

A young man in front of a window. A small room. A bed, a stove.

Harry took in his surroundings. He did not know the place. The flat was clean but extremely small and reeked of… poverty. The kind of poverty Harry had thankfully never known but that had plagued Remus for his entire short life. A lonely, unyielding prison. He could hear people speaking beyond the walls.

He raised his eyes to the man standing in front of the window and bit back a startled cry.

A small (but very vocal) part of him felt guilty for immediately recognizing who the person was. He tried to kill you at least fifteen time, Harry tried to comfort himself: _obviously_ you recognize him.

He tried to take a step back but realized he was – well, stuck. The urge to get back to his body was growing larger and larger until – something else caught his attention. Which was …. Everything. All the furniture, the _walls_ , the dust floating in the air, everything was so _clear_ that Harry was scared for a second that he was indeed in that room and not in a mere memory. It struck him how Dumbledore's and Voldemort's memories were alike in their accuracy. The pattern on an old tablecloth, right next to him, was perfectly detailed. Washed-out green polka-dots. It was, to be honest, extremely ugly (not that Harry was an expert in interior design). He looked away from the offending sight. The wooden floor was scarred with veins – they did not all follow the same direction, a poor job from the carpenter – _shut up, Harry_ , he thought.

Harry knew that in his own memories well… What was important was clear enough, he guessed, but the details were always a blur. He couldn’t remember the colour of the pillow on his own couch. He shouldn’t be surprised that Voldemort remembered _everything_. The man was, after all, nothing short of a genius.

Suddenly, a voice broke all his observations on the state of the floor and Voldemort’s fashion taste.

-It was yet another beautiful day in a miserable life – wait. Did _you_ write that?

Voldemort (or rather Riddle) - hard to use the Dark Lord's name for someone who looked just a bit over twenty - turned around. He looked, noticed Harry, remarkably pissed.

-Whether I wrote it or not is of no importance, he bit: just read the bloody script.

-Alright, alright, replied the same voice.

Harry followed Riddle’s angry stare. There was indeed someone behind him. He, too, looked a bit over twenty. He had bright blue eyes and was clothed in muggle fashion. He seemed quite amused as if he could not believe he had to do…whatever it was that he was doing.

-Should I start from the beginning?

-Obviously.

Harry looked at Riddle again. He was back at the window, looking deep in thought. As if the secret of the universe was right outside his shabby apartment.

-It was yet another beautiful day in a miserable life. Another day I should waste on mundane idiotic things. But I knew -

Riddle left the window and strode near where Harry was standing. His face was deadly serious. As for his eyes, they shone with the light only a great purpose can confer.

-I knew that one day, all my anguish would be rewarded because my goal - as far away as it may have been at that time, drew nearer every day.

Riddle was looking directly at Harry. Harry resisted the urge to look away or to take a step back. Riddle was _not_ looking at him. He was looking at the place he wanted the person watching his memory to be.

And indeed – as Harry had already noticed, he could not move around. His feet were completely glued to the floor. This could have been horrifying if not for the familiar pull of the body he had left behind. Which meant that he could leave anytime. It was not as if there was much room to wander in, anyway. He tried to think for a second, forcefully pushing his panic in the back of his mind. The fact that he could not move could only mean one thing: This was a staging _._ A performance.

-And you who watch the tale of -

The man started to laugh. It exploded has if he had been trying to supress it for too long, but the dam had finally overflown.

-I'm sorry Tom! he said raising his hands. He was clutching a piece of paper: I just can't do that - do you even hear yourself? "the tale of Lord Voldemort” - what kind of name is that? Wait, is that how you call yourself?

Riddle crossed the room with huge angry steps and snatched the piece of paper from the other man’s hand. He ripped it in two, looking as angry as ever.

-Next time you offer your help, remind me to tell you to get fucking _lost._

-Yeah maybe I offered my help because I didn't know you would make me read _to you_ some glorious tale about _your_ future -

-It's for my autobiography you dimwit!

-I'm sorry, I really don't see how _that_ will help you write an autobiography. Not that you don't look absolutely dazzling watching outside your window but -

-Shut up Dennis! yelled Voldemort.

-Oh my god, answered said Dennis: I feel like I'm taking part in some sort of narcissistic roleplay – Is that what this is about? Is it?

-No! Of course not, _idiot_.

Voldemort glanced at the paper he had thrown at his feet:

-I am compiling my _memoirs._ It doesn’t have the same effect without a narration. I should know: I tried.

-Okay, answered the stranger smiling as if Tom was some sort of cute animal - cute but a bit slow: I understand now.

Voldemort rolled his eyes:

-Have you ever been to the pictures? Same principle except - the film is a memory.

That didn’t seem to help Dennis:

-Alright. And… You couldn't do it yourself?

-No. I tried - but if I talk while doing my scene, I look like an absolute git.

Well. Harry was, to say the least, bewildered. He had watched the back and forth his mouth dramatically hanging. What the hell, he thought again and again. This - This was just completely ungraspable for his brain. Voldemort -

The idea that Voldemort had been willing to record some sort of oral testament for his action was…kind of in character, Harry supposed. But the other man - Dennis - how could he fit in his life?

He was dressed as a muggle, spoke like a muggle and - even worse - Voldemort had tried to explain the concept of the Pensieve by making a parallel with a muggle invention.

Harry was desperate to find another explanation but for now - the only one he could conjure was that Dennis _was_ a muggle. And that he had been close enough to Riddle to be in his confidence.

Even worse, close enough for Voldemort to accept his help. Which was, if Harry recalled correctly, completely unheard of.

The memory was still playing in front of him. Voldemort and Dennis were bickering about something - Harry had been too shocked to pay it any attention. He heard the name "Amy" being spoken a few time: apparently it was Dennis' girlfriend -

Why did this memory exist? it did not make any sense. The scene was a failure in that Voldemort's carefully planned discourse had been totally thwarted by Dennis’ incapacity to read his script seriously. So why was he still there?

Why had this been extracted from Voldemort’s mind?

More importantly: who had given him the memory?

Harry saw Voldemort laugh. It was a real, deep laugh that crinkled his eyes, transforming his face in something even more attractive than it usually was. Disgusted, horrified (was this some sort of death eater propaganda?) Harry rushed back to the security of his office.

The _absurdity_ of what he had seen - he was shaking. And he did not even know who to talk to. Voldemort had been dead for seven years. Nobody cared anymore. Harry had even heard a wizard tell his son to behave "unless he wanted Voldemort to come and get him". In seven years - the terror they all had felt had all but vanished and Voldemort had become a caricature of himself. A bogeyman to scare unruly children.

Seven years, Harry thought. How ironic.

He scooped the memory and put it back in the vial. The bottle had never left his right hand. It was hurting- Harry had clutched it so hard that his nails had left small marks on his palms. Horrified, he shook it absently, trying to subdue the pain.

He had a lot more questions than he had answers. Who had put the vial in his office? Who possessed such memories? He felt like Voldemort would not have left them readily available. Especially when they painted him as… a human. A human that would be quite melodramatic and megalomaniac but a human, nonetheless.

The knot in his stomach tightened. Hard to imagine that seven years after his death, Voldemort would still have the power to frighten him. And yet, that’s exactly what he felt – frightened.

Annoyed at his feelings he opened a random drawer of his desk, stuffed the vial in it, and solemnly swore he would never think of it again. It must have been a prank from Malfoy. Something to go along with the card. Yes. He could imagine Draco finding an object such as this in his father’s own office. Voldemort had entrusted Lucius with the diary, after all. A mere memory of his youth was not – Harry supposed – as valuable.

This comforting thought convinced him once and for all: he would speak to no one of what he had just witnessed. No one would know the existence of a Dennis or an Amy. No one would know that Voldemort had apparently decided to “record” (for a lack of better word) his own autobiography.

And with that decided, he attacked viciously the pile of forms that had been waiting for him.

Ironically, he now longed for the boring day that had died the second he had looked into the Pensieve.

And not once did he imagine that a new memory would be on his desk the next day.


	2. Delirious drive in an ambient apathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Full me once, shame on you.  
> Full me twice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos, bookmarks and subscriptions :)))  
> I hope this chapter won't disappoint.  
> Cheers!

* * *

Harry firmly decided that he would not think of the memory ever again. He would _not_ be walking straight into that prank. Malfoy would be oh-so delighted to see him overreacting again and after what had happened, what he had said – Nope, Harry thought, remembering one of his previous resolution: he had _also_ decided not to think about the humiliation (which was coincidentally the reason for the prank “someone” was trying to play on him) either.

After a few seconds of intense reflection, Harry decided he would actually not _think_ ever again. It seemed to be the only solution to the many predicaments of his life. His mind would close on itself forever, only casually registering the daily tasks that were directly at hand. Drink water. Eat. Sleep.

Of course, even though Harry wished nothing more than to be one of the robots he sometime saw in Muggle advertisement, he was very much human. And his brain – that he deemed not particularly bright (for that matter)– was still able to function. And boy, function it did.

The memory made him uneasy. He owed it to himself to recognize it. He did not like to see Tom Riddle laugh; he did not like to see him having…what. Friends?

No, Harry was indeed overreacting. He knew Riddle had had no qualms in pretending he had friends in Hogwarts. Slughorn’s memory was proof enough. But… But. Indeed, there was a huge, a flashing, a bright _but_. The kind of “but” annunciating catastrophes, the kind of “but” that had had him running right into all of Voldemort’s trap.

Here was what the “but” contained: Riddle had never seemed… natural. Every time Harry had been a witness of his interaction with his peers, he had been guarded – Dumbledore had seen it and Harry (of course advised by Dumbledore) had seen it too. His smiles, his laugh, the way he held himself – his entire behaviour, in Slughorn’s memory, had been perfectly tailored to the little Slytherin-reunion they had been sharing.

Which was in total contrast with the version of Tom Riddle he had seen in the memory. Because Riddle…Well Riddle had seemed…Casual. That was the word. Could Voldemort ever _be_ casual? If someone had asked Harry that question the day before, he would have _scoffed_ and answered a final and irrevocable: No.

Memories (but this time his own) swam in his head. The large gestures, the carefully planned speeches…everything, in Voldemort, had screamed “this is a performance, and I am the lead actor, me! Voldemort!”. Well, the memory he had found had been a performance alright, but a failed one.

Harry had gained access to the didascalies. Which was… utterly new. And extremely unsettling.

Then again, it was of no importance whatsoever as Voldemort was dead.

He is dead, thought Harry had he packed his things. Dead, he thought as he put his jacket on, Dead, he thought as he exited his office. And he hated himself for the room the dark lord could still take in his mind.

Which he had done in more ways than one, he bitterly considered thinking about the horcrux he had once been.

He closed his office door and turned around. The ministry was still full of life – he was leaving early. He had been so horrified by what he had witnessed that he had rushed through the infamous pile of forms, immersing himself in the mindless, soul-destroying work. The boxes-to-be-filled had occupied his mind for at least five hours so…ironically, he was grateful that this task had befallen him.

Now that it was done… Well, Harry supposed he’d better find something interesting to do with his evening. He could not afford to spend it thinking about the old days. Even though, _they_ were the one that had inserted themselves (quite rudely) in his routine. He would not give them that much hold over him, not _seven_ _year_ after the fact. Harry Potter may be pathetic, but he was not _that_ pathetic.

The great thing about those seven years was that now… Nobody cared about him anymore. He was not the novelty he had once been. Long were the days when wizard and witches interrupted his daily life to shake his hand or to pat him on the shoulder. He was – for the first time in his life – just Harry.

Except for the fact they still were…indulgent with him. He was not sure his little outburst would have been as easily forgiven had the source not been him.

Harry was an idiot; he knew that already. The whispers accompanying him wherever he went now said he had some sort of disorder, that he hated not being in the spotlight, that he was ready to do just-about-anything to be relevant again.

He passed a witch that was trying to write something on a scroll while she was walking. One had to admire her abilities; she did not even look up to greet him. Harry was not complaining, of course. Except that…He would have welcomed the distraction today as that meant less room to think of Tom Riddle.

Once in the Ministry hall, he wondered if going home was the best course of action. Maybe he’d better find what Ron was doing. Maybe he could even mention what he had found in his office. But he could easily imagine the worried look on his best-friend’s face. Ron would pity him for still… _caring_ about Voldemort. After all, who did? The book Rita Skeeter had written on him had not even sold that well. As for Hermione… It was very likely she would suggest (again) that he…talk to someone. To relieve himself from the burden that _obviously, still plagued him._

Harry sometimes feared he had unknowingly entered another dimension. That the whole wizarding world of Great Britain could forget the war that easily was... A bit … A bit frightening, actually. Harry did not like to think about that.

At all.

But the facts still stood. Just as if the wizards and witches were a small school of fishes, Voldemort had interrupted their gentle, organized flow for a few years, making them scatter in a frenzy. But as soon as he had disappeared… The fishes had regained their original place in the flow. And all was well. Purebloods took back their seat at the Wizenmagot, workers went right back to their desk and that was it. Voldemort who? a war _what?_

Nobody talked about the dead, nobody even mentioned the terrible things some people _that were still working_ for the Ministry had done. A new page had been turned and well, all was forgiven, after all… the culprit was dead.

Alright, thought Harry with some urgency, he _needed_ a distraction. He would go and see if Ron could also leave early. He would, of course, speak nothing of a stranded memory. He could not afford to grow paranoid which was precisely what he was dangerously close on doing.

He adjusted his course to go to the elevators, but a voice stopped him dead in his tracks. Drawling, unmistakably nasal, it was Draco Malfoy. The conversation they would be sure of having flashed through his mind. He could already see the pleased curve of his smile, the malice in his eyes as Draco would say: are you feeling better Potter? Or has a new Dark Lord started to stalk you?

Then he would laugh, Harry would redden and, of course, all of Malfoy’s friends (Harry did not know how he managed to still have friends) would laugh along with him.

Well, that was not going to happen. He turned his feet and defeatedly went to the apparition accesses.

* * *

His evening went as bad as he had supposed it would. All his carefully planned resolutions bode him a cheerful goodbye and flew right out the window as soon as he found himself alone. Around ten pm, after torturing himself by means of inane muggle television (that did not distract him in the slightest) he figured that maybe, _maybe_ what he needed to do was to actually _think_ about it once and for all, indulge his brain and get it over with. Maybe if Harry took the time to consider the memory carefully it would exorcise it.

It turned out that it did not help. At all.

The only thing his considerations achieved would be to make him even more puzzled by it. How could something so small and so short (the memory had lasted what – five minutes) obsess him like that for _bloody_ hours? Was he as insane as people said he was?

Defeated, dejected and definitely dispirited, Harry then went to bed.

He wondered, as he turned and turned in his bed if Hermione had not a point. Maybe he should talk to someone about his obsession for danger, dark lords and conspiracies. But who would listen? How could he put into words the feeling of unease that troubled him daily?

Harry tried to make sense of it. He did not like that no one talked about the war anymore. He did not like that he felt – he felt ostracised. Like he was something other. A nuisance.

He realized, as he fell asleep, that he was feeling exactly like he had in his childhood. When his life had been marked with the disapproving glares of the Dursleys. Yes, maybe the witches and wizard did not like to see him because he was a _reminder_ of what had happened. Just like he had been a reminder of James and Lily Potter to his dear Uncle and Aunt.

* * *

Harry woke up the next morning feeling great. As he opened the curtains that were obscuring his room, spilling the light in the process, he realized that the night had helped him overcome his feelings. Man, how dramatic he could be when he wanted!

Harry did not feel dread anymore. He was not even _curious_ anymore. Riddle’s memory would just be a bizarre anecdote he would never tell (by choice, not by shame. Important nuance). He showered, got ready for work and as happily as ever, went to the Ministry.

He crossed Draco in the hallway and, if that idea had terrified him the previous day, he was almost glad to see him now. With a smile, he told him goodhumoredly: “hello Draco!” without cringing.

Harry was damn proud of himself. Today was not the day he would be found in his office, linking a map of pictures with red strings. Today was not the day where he would (again) humiliate himself with his preoccupations.

Today, Harry Potter was a perfectly balanced individual, someone that could take pride in his life, his work and the way he tackled all the surprises of his daily –

He saw it the minute he entered his office. Gone was the stack of paper. His desk was absolutely bare – even his favourite cup had disappeared. It was bare…apart from the vial that was right in the middle of it.

It was eerily similar to the one he had found the previous day. Without missing a beat, Harry strode toward it. He sat on his desk, not quite daring looking at the new “gift” and blindly opened one of his drawers. Searching with his hand, he prayed that he would not –

There it was. He produced it from under him and held it in his palm.

There were now _two_ vials.

-Oh no, he said aloud. He would not fall for this.

The previous one had managed to destroy the fragile equilibrium of his life; it had sent him spiralling in a tornado of madness – he would not be subjecting himself to the same anguish twice.

Absolutely not, he thought as he took it and rose from his chair. He was, of course, just going to put it in the bin.

He did not. He went to his Pensieve and, with a sigh, emptied the vial.

* * *

It was the same room as the previous day. The same tablecloth, the same wooden floor. Except, this time, rather than facing the window, Tom Riddle was seated at the table and was smiling at him.

-I am _delighted_ you’re here, he said with a broad smile: please take a sit.

A chair suddenly sprang from the table. Harry understood he was supposed to sit down on it (obviously, Voldemort had invited him to do so). Frowning, he decided to do just that. He realized he had…never sat across Voldemort, ever. They had always been battling, moving around, blindly casting spells at one another. Weirdly enough, they had never taken the time to sit face to face and have a nice cup of tea. Well, he supposed that now that he had the memory, he could do that as much as he pleased (not that he would, it was just an _interesting_ thought. Harry had many of these).

-I am so curious about you. I wish I could actually _see_ who I am talking to. Who are you? asked Tom Riddle: Who ARE YOU? He made a gesture, as if to catch Harry’s arm.

He obviously didn’t catch anything even though Harry, startled, involuntarily withdraw both of his hands.

-Are you a friend? An enemy? Are you… Tom Riddle took a very inspired pose and smiled gently in Harry’s general direction: my lover? He then laughed as if the mere idea was preposterous: _that_ is not likely. No, I suppose you’re me, checking in to see if those memories are actually making sense. If the narrative, that we are so desperate to be known, makes any sense. I am sure you’re doing great, I am sure we’re doing a great job – Tom Riddle once more moved his hand forward and made as if to pat something – an arm, most likely. The arm where he supposed another version of himself would put it. And Harry could perfectly imagine Voldemort watching his old memory and be absolutely enthused by his younger self.

The young face of his enemy became serious again:

-Let’s say you are the person – even though I have _no clue_ for now- for whom those memories are for. Welcome! I’m not sure this one will be the first one you will be shown. I am, after all, currently wondering if doing some kind of tragic montage of my childhood would serve my purpose. He paused: my childhood is very tragic, if you did not know. But _anyway_ s, if you were not aware of that already it’s because I eventually figured said tragic montage was pointless.

He squinted:

-And I _hate_ pointless things.

Tom Riddle dramatically sighed. Harry wondered _why_ exactly, was he indulging Lord Voldemort on his megalomaniac outbursts. He should go. He really, really, should leave. There was nothing new he could learn in those memories – he was just being manipulated from beyond the grave – which was disturbing enough as it was.

-Anyway, I should introduce myself. If everything goes according to plan – and I am sure it will (a dangerous smile and Harry recognized for the first time Voldemort in the young man’s face), you might wonder who I am and what am I doing. Well, I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, half-blood, last heir of Slytherin and I intend to destroy the wizarding world so that I can build it up again –

Harry took one last look at the smiling face and decided he had enough of. This. bullshit.

The following second, he was in his office again. He was heaving with anger. That _bastard_ , what the fuck was he playing at? How could he –

Destroy the wizarding world so that he could _build it up again_ – Oh, Harry had heard quite a lot of bullshit in his life – starting with the Dursleys when he was a mere child, but this! This took the cake. He supposed he looked like a lunatic – to be honest he felt like a lunatic; he was pacing the small space of his office, almost frothing at his mouth. This was the kind of behaviour that would put him in Saint-Mungo’s quite -

 _Destroying the wizarding world_ – He had not! Voldemort had not destroyed anything. He had been a mere ripple in a perfectly well-adjusted society. The memory was still floating in the pensieve. Harry decided to retrieve it and destroy it.

Well, he ended up in it again.

-I am _delighted_ you’re here, he said with a broad smile: please take a sit.

 _Asshole!_ Thought Harry while Tom Riddle resumed his little introduction. He was so full of himself it was _insane_. He wanted to rip that smile right of his face and make him _eat it_. Which would undoubtedly be difficult as it was hard to eat something when one was missing a mouth but –

-And I _hate_ pointless things.

-I’m sure you do! snarled Harry crossing his arms: you _failed_ – whatever it was that you wanted to do – he was talking over Tom Riddle, wishing desperately that the memory could somehow hear him.

\- and I intend to destroy the wizarding world so that I can build it up again –

The memory kept on playing, oblivious to the fact its audience was not as receptive as he would have (Harry assumed) wished. Harry fought back the urge to leave the memory again. It was just… So preposterous, so utterly irritating, he sincerely hoped that upon dying, Voldemort had realized that whatever his grand scheme was – whatever it was that he had set up to do – he had _failed –_

Tom Riddle was smiling across from him, leaving his last declaration hanging in the air. He seemed so _so_ satisfied, so full of himself, Harry was tempted to try and strangle him –

-But enough with the mysterious utterances. What I will dedicate my life on doing – what I will _sacrifice_ my life for – (again with the very inspired look) is the destruction of the pure-blood oligarchy.

The memory seemed to falter. And then.

-I am _delighted_ you’re here, he said with a broad smile: please take a sit.

Harry was back in his office at once. The outrage he was feeling was spilling out of himself in deep breath. His stomach was a knot – he was so unbelievable angry – angry at the audacity, the sheer arrogance;

There was no way in hell Voldemort really thought he was convincing anyone with his feeble attempt at rewriting history. Destroying the pure-blood oligarchy, my ass! Harry thought. He was in the process of trying to break his chair’s backrest with his hands. It was not proving to be very successful.

Well at least – one thing was absolutely clear to him now. Whatever temptation he had of talking about the memories to his friend was now _gone for good._ He would not indulge Voldemort. And he would not indulge Malfoy either.

He was, as muggles sometimes said, absolutely done with this shit.

…

Or was he?


End file.
